Being here reminds me of why the Devil fell from grace. What was it. Questioning authority? Not that I resent my Mother. Not when I'm in control of myself in the way a man should be, at least. Every room aside from my own and the bathroom has been stripped of its purpose. Now it and I are just receptacles, built for taking in whatever my Mother wants to give. This house is dried-out of meaning. Sick. Dying.

We're dying with it. And I'm not a good enough caretaker to do anything about it.

I need to get out of this fucking house.